By noon the heat in the school building was heavy and still.

I took my lunch at twelve thirty and drove four blocks down Rochester Road to the little coffee shop on the corner of Maple Street.

My father was already at a corner table by the back window.

He had a small mug of black coffee in front of him that he hadn’t touched, and his wire-rimmed reading glasses lay on a paper napkin.

“Hello, Rachel,” he rumbled in his slow, low voice.